Cold Hands, Warm Heart
by Lisa Von Cooper
Summary: Vicky is a vampire. It's far from a perfect life, but it's the only life she knows how to live. She just wishes for someone to stand by her side and make the whole process easier. And then she meets Timmy Turner. Oneshot.


**Cold Hands, Warm Heart**

Isolation. Thirst. Disgust. These were the forces that ruled Vicky Valentine's nights.

Her paper-white skin was a symptom of her frosty body temperature. Her bony limbs were a symptom of her undead status. Her red eyes were a symptom of her bloodlust. She was not of this world. She was quite certain she had no soul.

She was one of the Cold Hands.

She was never supposed to be here at all. She should have been just like the rest of us, gracing the Earth for eighty years or so before either reaching the realm beyond the clouds or tumbling into the pit of fire. But somewhere, something went terribly wrong. Consequently, she straddled the threshold between life and death, not belonging to either category.

She was confined to the shadows – until the thirst gripped her, and she emerged.

Vicky had plenty of time to master her techniques. Perhaps she would follow some twentysomethings leaving a bar and lure one of them away from the group, distracting them by conjuring some flickering lights and intriguing noises, before sinking her teeth into an artery throbbing in their neck. Perhaps she would find some friendly folks to stay with, pretending to enjoy their homemade meals, singing an irresistible lullaby to send them off to sleep, before purging her stomach to make more room for her midnight feast. Such plots used to repulse her, but after the fiftieth tragedy, she was suitably hardened for the long haul ahead.

Being eternally sixteen years old, finding a job was not the easiest of tasks – instead, she spend most of her days in a derelict cabin on the outskirts of Dimmsdale, blocking the windows with cloaking enchantments, letting in not one beam of scorching sunlight. Whenever the drive to maim and kill struck again, which was every week or so, she would wait until nightfall and then zip into another town with her super-speed to repeat the whole gory process. On a good day, she could travel hundreds of miles in a matter of minutes. It helped to escape suspicion if she didn't take too many lives from the same place in one go.

She prided herself on not being one of _those_ vampires that had no conscience. Even the undead had standards. And Vicky's one fixed principle was that children were her least favourite snacks. They always had promise, promise she had never been granted, and their injury could have caused her an untold amount of guilt. She would only ever drain a youngster if she had to. If she absolutely had to. Or, of course, if she waited too long between drinks and the red mist descended and she lost control. But those instances were becoming rarer; she was spotting the signs early.

Vicky was aware of the existence of another type of vampire, the Warm Hearts. They couldn't use magic like the Cold Hands, but they had something much more important: a circulatory system. A sophisticated charm was required to turn a human being into a Warm Heart. That didn't bother her – Vicky had memorised all the steps. So why had she never attempted it?

Because she hadn't yet found a human being worthy of the transformation.

No-one understood Vicky Valentine, not even the few other vampires she had bumped into (and fought with) on her travels. No-one could possibly understand her unless they'd experienced exactly what she had experienced – the hurt, the terror, the sense of abandonment from early days she would rather forget. For some reason, though, her studies of humanity only served to convince her that she was an exceptional case, that her problems were unique to her.

She was constantly on the edge of a cliff, monitoring herself before she fell onto the rocks. It was far from a perfect life, but it was the only life she knew how to live. She just wished for someone to stand by her side and make the whole process easier.

And then she met Timmy Turner.

…

It began when the redhead picked a path through a front lawn that was covered with snow. She rapped her knuckles on the door; it was opened by a man in a crisply-ironed shirt. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"Hello, Mr…"

"Turner."

"Mr Turner. Sorry to bother you so late at night," she continued, rubbing the back of her neck, "but I missed the last bus, and I was wondering if I could use your phone to call my mom and get her to pick me up?" She attempted an innocent smile – not showing her teeth, of course.

The raven-haired man glanced back inside, then returned to Vicky. "Don't you have a cell phone?"

"It ran out of charge."

Mr Turner deliberated. "All right, then." He stepped aside. "You can use the one in the kitchen." His pointing finger showed her the way there.

"Thank you so much!" Vicky clasped his free hand in her mitten-clad ones and shook it vigorously. "You're a lifesaver!" She dashed into the kitchen. Anyone would think she was a regular twenty-first century teenager and not an old hunter searching for fresh meat.

She slipped the purple gloves off, picked up the receiver and dialled the same random number she did every time she pulled this scam.

"Megan Bacon, the Cake 'N' Bacon. How can I help you?"

"Hi, Mom! It's me, Vicky."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah, the party was great. Here's the thing, I was walking to the bus stop, and I _thought_ I was going to make it, but I've actually just missed the last one."

There was a crackle from the other end of the line. "You must have the wrong number, kid. I'm not your mother. This is the _Cake 'N' Bacon_." She enunciated the words as if she was talking to a toddler.

"I know, I know, I'm so ditzy. Do you think you could pick me up from – from-?" She flashed a nervous gaze at a lady leaning in the doorway.

"98 Hartman Lane," Mrs Turner filled her in.

"98 Hartman Lane?" Vicky repeated.

Megan Bacon sighed. "Look, if you're not going to book a table, you need to get off the line."

"What do you mean, you're snowed in?"

"I – I never said anything like that!"

"Fine, I'll just sleep at Lauren's house. I'm sure she'll be cool with it."

"Are you even listening to me?" Megan Bacon growled.

"I love you too, Mom. See you soon! Bye!" Vicky hung up and turned to face Mrs Turner. "Well, it looks like my mom won't be able to make it until tomorrow."

"Gosh, the weather must be much worse there than it is here." The woman stroked her chin. "Does she live out of town?"

"Yep. We're practically in the woods. No snow ploughs ever reach us." Vicky put her mittens back on and stared out the window. Fresh snowflakes drifted to the ground. "Do you know a place where I can stay for the night?"

"Well…" Mrs Turner looked the teenager up and down, most likely searching for any sign of a threat, any sign that this stranded party-goer was not what she seemed. "My daughter's bedroom should be free. She's at a sleepover tonight."

"She won't mind? Will _you_ mind?"

"Not at all! We'd be happy to help."

"Wow, thanks!" So far, so good. All Vicky needed to do now was ignore her impatient itchy skin until they fell asleep.

"Since you're our guest, why don't you make yourself at home?" Mrs Turner offered. She practically pushed Vicky into the other room, which contained a squishy purple settee as its focal point and an ancient blocky television tucked away in the corner (but, fortunately for Vicky, no mirrors). "This is the living room," the woman added, somewhat unnecessarily.

Mr Turner laid a hand on an empty purple cabinet. "And this is where we'd put our daughter's trophies – IF SHE HAD ANY!" he suddenly blurted out. He paused, wide-eyed. He cleared his throat and composed himself. "I'm joking, of course. We love our girl just the way she is."

"I'm sure you do." Vicky squinted at a picture on the wall, lips pursed. It was taken at the beach. The parents were sitting on their blue-and-white stripy towel, under a red umbrella, on either side of their buck-toothed daughter.

Something was off about that photograph. It wasn't the father's tight swimming trunks, though they were incredibly hard to look at. It was the child. She was skinny, almost too skinny. Her sunhat was far too big for her. One eye was slightly darker than the other, as if she'd been punched in the face and it was still healing. And what was that weird bulge under her sparkly pink swimsuit?

"Why don't you take your jacket off?" Mr Turner suggested. "You'll overheat!"

"No, I won't." Vicky hugged the green fleece tighter around her, shivering. "I feel the cold so much it's ridiculous. The doctor said I might have a problem."

The worried glance between husband and wife was only temporary.

"What's that scratching sound?"

The couple looked around. Perhaps they didn't catch it. Vicky would understand; she had much more sensitive hearing. She could probably hear a fly breaking wind in Africa. But then the scratching resumed.

"Oh – probably just the wind," Mr Turner shrugged.

But it wasn't. Vicky knew it wasn't.

"Mom?"

Mrs Turner scurried back into the kitchen. A blender burst into life, rattling and clattering. The mother yelled something over the cacophony, but Vicky had tuned her out. She was picking out the frantic little voice.

"Mom? Dad? I'm hungry." A low rumble. A weird choking noise, possibly a sob. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I'll be good! I promise! Just let me out and feed me!"

Vicky had a feeling the girl wasn't at the sleepover. She had a feeling this house was not all it appeared to be on the outside. It wasn't cosy or safe, like a hug. There was danger bubbling beneath the surface, like an active volcano.

She bit her lip as the memories resurfaced.

Mr Turner emitted a high-pitched shriek.

Too late, Vicky realised what she'd exposed. She covered her mouth, her fangs, but the damage had been done.

"VAMPIRE!" he cried. When Mrs Turner rushed in, he leapt into her arms. "Get me away from that monster!"

"You think _I'm_ the monster?" Vicky sneered. She rolled up her sleeves, exposing her bony arms. She slipped her mittens off and unsheathed her claws. "Why don't you feed your own child?"

With a glare, Mr and Mrs Turner were paralysed.

She rushed at them.

She was too quick for them to even scream. Their necks snapped, and they flopped to the floor, dead at her feet. Vicky tore into them. Fangs split open their faces. Claws ripped their chests inside out. She lapped up the sanguine liquid from the walls, from the carpet, from everywhere it spurted. She was a thing possessed, whirling across the room. She was spreading as much damage as possible. They deserved every piece of it.

Once the fire within her had cooled, once she'd had her fill of their vital fluids, she stood up again. Her hands were filthy. Her clothes were stained. Her hair was a tangled mess.

And she could still hear their daughter.

"What's happening?" Banging filled the room, shaking the door to the cupboard under the stairs. "Mom? Dad?" The knocks sped up and grew louder. "Somebody, anybody!"

Fear. Vicky knew the feeling well. She'd seen and heard it often enough in her victims to recognise it from a mile off. She knew what it did to people. She knew how desperate it made them, how much more unpredictable they became, how careless they could be if they thought their lives were in danger.

She wanted to go in there and give that kid a big hug and say it would be okay. But it wasn't possible, not in this state. A pale red-eyed stranger caked in your parents' blood would not be the most comforting figure in your time of need.

Instead, Vicky traipsed around the house, waiting for the urchin to drift off. She stripped off and stuffed her clothes into the washing machine. She had a steaming hot shower. She helped herself to some raw steak from the fridge. She piled the Turners' bones together and dumped them in the trash can.

At last it was quiet behind the door, save for the occasional snore. Vicky tried to access the cupboard. The door was locked. She gave it a tug. She ended up pulling it off its hinges. She didn't know her own strength sometimes. Not that it mattered anymore – Mr and Mrs Turner would never see it.

She had her first glimpse of the girl.

But it wasn't a girl at all. It was a boy, a boy in a soiled pink dress. He was curled up between stacks of old newspapers, eyes closed, the remnants of tears sticking to his cheeks. His thin brown hair partially obscured the gash on his forehead.

And yet his scent was the most gorgeous scent she had ever encountered.

She watched him sleep, and her long-dormant heart swelled with something she thought she'd trained herself to be immune to.

Pity.

She couldn't leave him here.

Quick as a flash, she found his bedroom. She trawled through the closet, through the spectrum of pink, picking out a soft winter coat and thick blue trousers. The words scribbled on the labels revealed his identity: Timmy Turner. It wasn't until she saw them that she realised his parents had never called him by his name.

She returned to the lad and got to work. It wasn't easy to undress and dress a sleeping boy, especially while wearing gloves herself, but Vicky kept going. It was all necessary to protect him from the cold.

 _Her_ cold.

When he was suitably bundled up, with his coat and boots and hat and gloves, she scooped him up and darted across Dimmsdale to her hideout. When the evening began, Vicky had been expecting to follow the usual routine: invite herself in, gain the family's trust, and then leave their bloodied carcasses behind. And yes, her expectations were met in some respects. Now, though, the solution to all her problems was snoozing soundly in her arms.

Her days of hiding and hunting would soon be over.

…

Timmy lay on his back on the old mattress. Miraculously, during the rush between houses and the scrabble through the undergrowth, he never stirred. He continued to not stir while Vicky zipped around, floorboards creaking slightly wherever she went. She sprinkled a circle of salt around his heart; it was for his own protection. She was setting up the equipment for – it. She wasn't brave enough to articulate her plan yet. There was so much at stake.

Heh. Stake…

She was soon ready. She pulled up a wooden chair and sat down near Timmy's head. She lit a thick red candle on the bedside table. She scrutinised his features in the flimsy glow: his tiny nose, his huge teeth, his sore red eyelids. She sampled the unusual perfume wafting through the air. It was thick and sweet compared to the bitter tang of the candle's smoke. He really did smell delicious.

 _Surely one drop couldn't hurt, one drop before I begin…_

 _NO!_ Vicky gritted her teeth. It was far too risky. It could send her into a frenzy. It could destroy her last chance at something akin to happiness.

The candle flickered furiously to match her nervous thoughts. She silently wished he would stay asleep. It would be incredibly distressing for him to awake in the middle of the ordeal. She remembered the terror of emerging from death and realising her heart was no longer beating. It was a sickening emptiness. Thankfully, Timmy wouldn't have to endure _that_ specific change. But the rest – she had no idea how he would react. She couldn't let anything happen that would make him panic and run away.

This Warm Heart would not leave her. Vicky would make sure of it.

She took a deep breath (even though she technically didn't need the oxygen anymore) and began casting the spell.

" _O restless spirits of ghastly show,_

 _O forces I can never know,_

 _Grant your favour for this feat,_

 _This preservation of this meat._ "

She paused. A chilly breeze ruffled her hair. She caught a sound not dissimilar to a cat yowling. They were here. They were listening. She carried on.

" _My precious morsel, let him stay;_

 _Let him join me on my way._

 _Let him slip from day to night;_

 _Let him taste the fruits of fright._ "

The skin on her palms tingled, further proof that the enchantment was working. Her head was light and foggy, as if her brains had been replaced by a fluffy cloud. She raised her voice.

" _Of all his features, this remains:_

 _The fluid coursing through his veins._

 _His blood, my drink – his offer, my chance –_

 _Forever through the dark we dance._

 _A loyal acquaintance we will make_

 _For as long as we avoid the stake._ "

In her trance, Vicky swore she could see a host of shadowy creatures with multi-coloured eyes. They were dancing on the walls, cackling as they flew over Timmy's body, gleeful to add another member to their pack. The gash on the child's forehead faded until it had disappeared completely. Vicky's mouth filled with venom, prickling in its heat. A knife of fire rushed up her spine. It shocked her into action. She screamed the final couplet.

" _He will not fail to respond_

 _As with this bite I seal the bond!_ "

She threw herself onto the boy and gave him a ravenous nip to the neck.

The candle extinguished itself. The creatures scurried away, their work completed. She pulled back. She laughed. She didn't know why. Maybe because it was over. Maybe because the silence needed to be broken. Maybe because he tasted as good as he smelt – no, better.

"AAAGH!"

Timmy sat bolt upright, wide awake.

Vicky yelped and fell backwards in her chair, hitting the floor with a _CRASH_! She was jolted from her daze. _Well, he certainly didn't fail to respond._

Timmy's head swivelled wildly, taking in the whole scene. "Where am I?" He noticed his kidnapper leap to her feet. "Who are you?" He suddenly screamed and clutched his salty chest. "What's happening?"

He was asking too many questions. Vicky had too few answers. "Timmy, relax."

"How do you know my name?" He prodded at the site of the bleeding. "Ow!"

Vicky wiped her mouth and extended her now-sticky hand to him. "Okay, we definitely got off on the wrong foot-"

"Stay away from me!" Grunting, Timmy slid off the bed and crawled towards the cracked mirror leaning against the wall. A patch of grey skin grew and spread from the bite mark, intruding on his right cheek.

He saw it. He gasped. He looked back at Vicky, his gaze pleading for an explanation. He returned to the mirror. He kept switching between the teenager and the glass. "Where's your reflection?"

"Well, uh…" She racked her brains for something, anything, that would sound reassuring. She drew a blank.

"No," Timmy breathed. "This can't be right. Those things don't exist."

He winced and covered his mouth. When he pulled his hand away, his buck teeth were framed by fangs.

"Don't they?"

He kept his eyes on the mirror, mouth hanging open in shock. He shuddered as the process continued. He pulled his coat off, following the path of the dirty grey film as it slid across his skin. He lifted his shirt up, revealing a black circle around his heart, as if the salt were engrained into his chest.

His aroma grew stronger. Vicky licked her lips, savouring the taste of _him_. It would be over soon, he would calm down, and then he would be hers, all hers to devour, and she trembled in excitement despite the horror in the boy's face.

His irises darkened until they were as black as his pupils.

The transformation was complete.

But Timmy couldn't tear his gaze from the mirror. "When's _my_ reflection going to disappear?"

"It won't," Vicky explained. "You're not that kind of vampire. You still have a heartbeat. I don't."

"Vampire…" He shook his head. "This is stupid. I'm not a vampire. This is a silly bad dream. I'm going to wake up soon." He squeezed his eyes shut, counted to three and opened them again. He was still there, on the floor before the mirror. "This isn't a dream, is it?"

"Sorry, kid. Vampires are real, all right. I should know." She took a step forward. "And now you should know, too."

Timmy climbed onto quivering, unsteady feet. "Why? Why me?" He picked up his coat. "And what about Mom and Dad? How do I explain this to them?" The coat slipped through his fingers and fall to the floor again. "What if I – what if I hurt them?"

"You don't need to worry about those scumbags." Vicky folded her arms. "I've already taken care of them."

Timmy raised an eyebrow, and then his lip wobbled in realisation. "You … you killed my parents?"

Their eyes met, hers blood-red, his pitch-black. She neither confirmed nor denied his assumption.

"You monster!" he spat out, flinging the door open and running away.

"Timmy!" Vicky gave chase. She had to make him stay inside. The Sun would be rising any minute now.

And it would not be a pretty sight.

…

It wasn't difficult to track his scent. Or his screams.

Timmy writhed on the ground, fallen leaves and fallen snow crunching beneath him. The budding light was scraping at his newly-mutated skin, peeling back the outer layer. Blotchy purple sores exploded all over his body.

"WHY DID I THINK THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA?!" he bellowed.

Vicky had to act quickly; the rays were needling at her own skin, too. In a blink of an eye, she'd picked him up, trying to ignore the screeches that meant he was suffering. Though she was now half-blinded, she managed to dodge every tree as she retraced her steps to the cabin. She dumped the burning bundle on the bed before returning to slam the door.

There was already an improvement in Timmy's condition. The spots were sinking away, and the furious purple patches faded to lilac. He groaned once more and sat up.

"You're lucky you didn't burst into flames," Vicky commented.

Timmy raised his head. "Thanks for saving me," he said; the gloom in his eyes suggested this was the last thing he wanted to utter.

"You're welcome."

His small hands gripped the edge of the bed. "This is bad," he said to himself. "This is bad. I don't know the first thing about vampires. I don't know what kills them, or whether or not they sleep, or what happens when you bite someone – what am I going to do?"

"If you'd just let me help you-"

" _You_ help me?" Timmy snapped. He stood and advanced. "As if I'm going to trust _you_ after what you did!"

"I saved your life!"

" _Before_ then."

Vicky backed up. "Is this about the whole killing-your-parents thing? Why do you care about those people, anyway? They locked you in a cupboard! They were letting you go without food! They were ashamed of you just because you weren't the girl they wanted!"

Timmy's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "They're still my mom and dad. I still love them. And I never asked you to kill my mom and dad!" He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening. "I never asked to become a vampire, either!"

"You should be happy!" Vicky yelled. "At least you get to keep your circulatory system! At least you're still whole!"

"Yeah, I'm _so_ lucky to have a nice big supply of blood for my parents' murderer to gorge on," Timmy sneered. "Just leave me alone, okay? I never asked to be your – your – your CHEW TOY!"

"You're not my…" Vicky began, but she tailed off. Because, in a way, what Timmy said had an element of truth. He was just her chew toy.

She had broken her own Golden Rule to create him. He was ten years old, and now he would never grow any bigger. He would never sit a test and have his first kiss and graduate high school. He would never go to college and drink too much and make some huge mistakes. He would never work in a dead-end job and get fired and find his true calling elsewhere. He would never meet that special someone and get married and have lots of children. He would never retire and grow old and complain about his ailments to whoever stuck around to listen. From now until forever, his true calling would be helping her to live the lazy life, with no need to go hunting ever again. He would be her personal blood bank.

She had robbed a little boy of his future, just so she could have a never-ending supply of haemoglobin.

How could she have been so selfish?

"I'm sorry," Vicky sighed. "I didn't think – I wasn't thinking straight when I took you. I was just…" She shuffled past him and flopped onto the bed herself. "I'd been wandering across the world for years, searching for food, and I never had anyone by my side. I thought I could handle it, but it got to me eventually. I wanted a friend more than anything." She hugged herself. "And from the moment I saw you in that cupboard, I knew it had to be you."

Timmy picked the chair up off the floor and sat down in it. "Why? Couldn't you just make yourself different and drink your own juices?"

"It's not that simple, Timmy. You can't turn a Cold Hand into a Warm Heart."

"Again in English, please?"

Vicky shuffled into a more comfortable position. "There are two kinds of vampires. I'm a Cold Hand, because I'm cold, and you're a Warm Heart, because you're warm."

"I'm with you so far."

"Cold Hands can use magic, but Warm Hearts can't."

"That's stupid," Timmy interrupted. "Don't the Warm Hearts get anything cool?"

"Super-strength and super-speed. Vampires don't need to sleep, either. That's what we both have in common." Vicky fiddled with the hem of her jacket. "However, Warm Hearts bleed, whereas Cold Hands don't. It's nice to have a Warm Heart around because you don't have to sneak into town and drain human beings all the time. Every Cold Hand wants one. But the only way to get one is to find a living human being and put a spell on them."

"That's what you did to me." Timmy was quiet for a moment. "How do you become a Cold Hand?"

Vicky hesitated. "That's easy. All you have to do is die and wait."

Timmy blinked. "Oh, man, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay. I can handle it. I've been dead for years now."

"How many years?"

Her smile was thin. "A lady never reveals her age."

Timmy drummed his fingers on the bedside table. "Do you want to talk about it?"

 _This is it, Vicky. This is your chance._

"I guess you ought to know more about me if we're going to be together." Vicky avoided his curious eyes. "My mother was evil." She went straight to the point. "She never congratulated me when I succeeded. She never consoled me when I failed. I could walk in wearing nothing but a few fig leaves and she still wouldn't acknowledge me. She was completely different around my brothers, though. They were definitely her favourites." Vicky scowled. "I always suspected she hated me. One day, not long after I turned sixteen, I knew for sure."

Timmy tilted his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"We had an argument. Her face turned purple as she roared at me, telling me I was stupid and useless and couldn't do anything right. But then she hit me with the big news: she wasn't my mother. And she couldn't tell me which woman was because my father was too … well-known, shall we say."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. I froze. She grabbed me – I was scrawny – and threw me into a cupboard and locked the door." Vicky shuddered. "Those were the worst days of my life. I needed to eat something, drink something. My stomach was on fire. It was agony. I begged her to let me out. She never answered me."

Timmy nodded slowly. He understood.

"It was a funny thing, dying. I was fighting for hours, clinging on for days, willing myself to defeat the pain, telling myself I wasn't going to give up. But when she didn't come back, when she didn't let me out, I grew weaker. I faltered. I asked myself why. That was my biggest mistake. I wondered why I was still pretending I stood a chance. And it was in that moment, that surrender, that I felt my soul slipping out and floating away."

Timmy chewed his bottom lip.

"But it wasn't over." She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and ran it through her fingers. "I woke with a jolt. It was weird. I didn't feel hungry or thirsty anymore. I didn't feel anything anymore, not even my heart beating. It was as if I'd never existed, as if I wasn't real. This time, when I tried to escape and kicked at the door, it flew off its hinges. My mother saw it all. Do you know what she said when I faced her?"

"What?" Timmy whispered.

"She said, 'How are you still here?'" Vicky's nails dug into the mattress. "I know she wasn't my mother, but she was still the woman who was supposed to protect me and teach me and love me – and she'd been trying to kill me! She locked me up and left me alone and hoped I would die! She WANTED me to die! Do you know what that feels like? Do you know the BETRAYAL?" She closed her eyes. "I don't remember much after she said that; there was a thick red mist that blocked everything out. When it cleared, I was standing with blood and guts on my clothes, and she was – she was-"

Vicky retched. Timmy shied away. She caught herself just in time. "That was when I realised what I'd become," she rushed on. "I despised myself. I tried everything to make it end: stabbing myself, smothering myself, jumping off a cliff, even cutting off my head. But nothing worked. I was a beast, and I still am today."

The story completed, Vicky swallowed, willing herself to keep it together. Timmy leaned forward and patted her knee, at a loss for anything else to do. "Is that why you chose me? Because we both had pretty lousy parents who shut us away?"

"I suppose," Vicky mumbled with a sniff. "That, and because your blood was calling to me."

Timmy stiffened. "Um."

The redhead stroked his balmy gloved hand with her cool mitten-clad one. "You don't have to stick around if you don't want to. If you still hate my guts and want to leave, I'll let you go. I'll understand. I mean, I _did_ tear your parents apart…"

Timmy shook his head furiously. "I'm staying. You've had a rough time, and that sucks, and I want you to be okay. Besides, it's not like I have much choice. I need you to tell me what I can and can't do. You need me to stop yourself going mad with thirst. We're stuck with each other."

Vicky focused on his hand, sliding the glove off. "Speaking of going mad with thirst…"

"Uh-oh," he whimpered.

"Don't be scared. I know what I'm doing." She rolled his sleeve up.

"Don't take too much," Timmy pleaded.

"There's no chance of that," Vicky reassured him. "We heal quickly. You'll be restocked almost instantly."

Pale-faced, Timmy turned his head and closed his eyes.

She gingerly nibbled at his wrist, frequently glancing up to watch his reaction. She was being timid. It wasn't enough. She needed more. She sank her teeth into the flesh. She punctured a vein. The action made the boy tighten his grip on the arm of the chair with his free hand. Gooey gory nectar bubbled up and spilled over; Vicky caught the trickling fluid with her tongue.

Timmy moaned.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah." He giggled. "That actually feels good."

Vicky couldn't agree more. She had supped on many a creature in her lifetime, but this was something else. This was magnificent. This was thick and plump and smooth and zingy and refreshing. This was Timmy. This was what she came for.

"Wow." For a while after she pulled back, that was the only word in her vocabulary. "Wow." She placed Timmy's hand in his lap. "Until next time, my friend."

"Uh-huh." The kid didn't seem to be fully concentrating. His eyes had rolled back in his head.

A reminder flashed across Vicky's mind. "Oh, one more top tip for being a vampire: lay off the garlic."

That made him sit up and take notice. "Why? Is it deadly?"

"No, I just can't stand the stench."

 **THE END**

 **Author's Note: This was my first attempt at a story with vampires in it … and I gave myself** _ **two**_ **different types to get my head around. I really struggled to write Timmy's transformation process – firstly, because I had to do a lot of weird Google searches relating to vampire mythology, and secondly, because it was hard to make it feel creepy rather than cheesy. Hopefully you enjoyed this oneshot regardless!**

 **By the way, I tried to find out what the Turners' address is, but I don't think it's ever been revealed, so I made it up.**


End file.
